


The Wings of a Gull

by diabhals



Category: Beneath - Fandom, Original Work, Reqiuem - Fandom
Genre: Bonding, Gen, Sea Shanties, absurd amount of sea metaphors, mentions of implied domestic abuse, mentions of implied rape/non-con, tammy's very soft for his new son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24420958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabhals/pseuds/diabhals
Summary: Sometimes, Tammy wonders what a true sunset looks like. Whether, as the sun dips down, heavy-laden, it sets fire to the sea, leaving a burnished shaft of orange in its wake. Whether it glowers like an angry goddess as it swells, reaching the apex of its red-eyed fury as it slips below the horizon, or whether it simply drifts away without a word.
Relationships: Tammy Ciobanu & Sol
Kudos: 2





	The Wings of a Gull

Sometimes, Tammy wonders what a true sunset looks like. Whether, as the sun dips down, heavy-laden, it sets fire to the sea, leaving a burnished shaft of orange in its wake. Whether it glowers like an angry goddess as it swells, reaching the apex of its red-eyed fury as it slips below the horizon, or whether it simply drifts away without a word.

The sunsets he sees from the top of the Palace are washed-out affairs, choked with sea-fog; salty sunsets, more blue-grey than fury-orange. Yet Tammy still welcomes them, _hoping_ they mark the death of the day. Well, they do: down in the street below, dock workers hurry back to their families, their hearths, jostling each other as the pinpricks of their cigarettes light their way. Out in the harbours, greatships sleep, their crews turned out for a night on the town.

A night at the Palace, experience tells him.

He has a little ritual for these sunsets, something of a prayer that his night will go undisturbed. First, drawing the curtains -- they’re only lace, flimsy as a whisper, but even so they act as a barrier, keeping the outside world beyond his window -- though no-one can see in from the street anyway. Then, watering the plants with a crystal jug, a gift from an adoring client; _belladonna, monkshood, lady’s leaf, foxglove_ , the order comes as second nature. Tammy hums a soft tune as the water splashes down, pulling his shawl tighter around his shoulders -- it’s never warm enough up here, the fire nothing more than a pile of flickering embers.

Perhaps it’s more than that. When he’s done, he turns to survey the room, the peeling floral wallpaper, the iron-framed bed he lives and works and sleeps in for the most part. There’s a chill in the air, but a chill in his bones as well, a familiar, ever-present ache. Tonight, like most nights, it’s concentrated in his back, a low throbbing at the edges of his awareness -- sometimes he imagines a length of thick sail-rope wrapped around his spine, tightening and tightening until the pain gets too much.

Mostly, though, it just _aches_.

Next, Tammy fills a small basin from the same jug, washing the day’s makeup away. Goodbye to the powder that conceals a light dusting of freckles, to the rouge that puts a dull approximation of a healthy glow in his cheeks; with it comes the last of the day’s energy, leaving only an empty kind of exhaustion, dark circles all too visible in the mirror. When every day ends this way, even the small comfort of exchanging the shawl for a thicker blanket feels mundane, numb. Picking at the frayed edge of the blanket, he wonders how much more of this he’ll have to endure -- it’s an everyday kind of wonder, almost part of his routine by now, the voice at the back of his head half-begging for a release. 

_Just a little longer_ : the reply, too, is familiar, as he reaches under the bed, pulling out a jewellery box. Mother-of-pearl enamelled, much cheaper than any of the other gifts in the room -- but it isn’t the glistering surface he treasures it for. Fingers fumble with the secret compartment, teasing it out with a soft thrill of excitement. 

Inside is a bundle of letters, tied with a frayed velvet ribbon. A bundle of knives, each one powerful enough to destroy a life, filling Tammy with a rush of power. _One day,_ he tells himself, _one day_ these letters will prove their worth, will be nothing but ashes in the fireplace, and he’ll be far away from this place. It’s enough to keep a flickering flame of hope burning as he replaces the letters, sliding the box back under his bed. 

Usually, the ritual ends here. Usually, Tammy surrenders to the gnawing ache and tries to sleep, managing to find some warmth in a nest of blankets and old furs, too threadbare to wear anymore.

But _usually_ Agatha’s rooms are unoccupied, _usually_ the other songbirds are taking clients til the sun blinks over Andreus’ Maelstrom, leaving Tammy with nothing to talk to but plants and letters. Usually normal, mundane life didn’t have Sol in it.

So now there’s a new part to the ritual: shimmying the connecting door to Agatha’s rooms open and hurrying through the narrow corridor, a draught nipping at Tammy’s heels. 

Opening the door at the other end feels painfully foreign, painfully familiar. He half-expects to see Agatha there, leaning out of her window as if the sea mist itself will come to her rescue. Always so angry, a little spitting viper of a girl, scraped off the streets for her nightshade-dark hair -- yet she was soft to him, sometimes. She used to gather Tammy to her chest like a wishbone, whisper stories of the sea against his hair, let him scream and cry his voice away, then fall asleep to the sound of her steady breathing.

_She smelled of seasalt_ , he notes absently as he leans in the doorway.

There’s no Agatha now, only the faded lobster-print wallpaper she chose to decorate her gilded cage. Instead, Sol sits, curled in on himself, on the bed, barely making a dent in the space she used to fill.

“Are you planning on going to sleep soon?” Tammy tosses out the question hesitantly, not wanting to put any pressure on Sol. The poor darling’s back is already half-broken with it, already littered with scars. _Belladonna, monkshood, lady’s leaf, foxglove_ , the order rushes through Tammy’s mind, now something of a promise, a warning to Sol’s lover.

Sol glances up like he’s been caught red-handed, mouth moving silently, trying to formulate a response. _Oh, goddess_ , he looks so _lost_ , so scared it makes something in Tammy’s chest crack. He knows that foundering look, that drowning look: it speaks the words Sol obviously can’t say, _please don’t leave me alone_.

“Oh, _darling_ .” Tammy’s at his side in an instant, perched on the bed, rubbing his back. “It’s alright, I’m not going anywhere.” How could he? The way Sol melts slightly, leaning into his touch, is testament enough to why he _has_ to stay.

“Hey, I tell you what, why don’t you lie with me -- not like that,” he added quickly, feeling Sol stiffen, relax, the way he did when he was afraid. “Just -- here, let me show you.”

Tammy flops back against the mattress, gathering the blankets into a kind of nest. There aren’t nearly as many as he likes, but it doesn’t matter -- their warmth should be enough for each other.

Myriad expressions flutter over Sol’s face: confusion, surprise, apprehension. Tammy considers it a battle won when a small _ok_ slips from his lips and he lies down, curling himself around Tammy.

_He’s shaking,_ slowly sliding his arms around Tammy as if he’s afraid this paltry comfort will be snatched away. He’s shaking, and all Tammy can do is softly whisper, _it’s alright, it’s alright. You’re safe here._ This close, he can smell the sweet, honeyed scent of Sol’s skin, something he thought was perfume but hasn’t faded over the past few weeks.

Tammy begins to sing, softly -- he’s never been good at softening his voice, it scrapes up and down the notes with a husky edge, but he _hopes_ it’ll be enough to give Sol some comfort. Something to cling to that isn’t sea-fog loneliness.

_If I had the wings of a gull, my boys, I’d spread them and fly home._

_I’d leave the North Sea ice behind, for of good whales there are none --_

_And the weather’s rough, and the winds do blow, there’s little comfort here,_

_And I’d sooner be home, than out here alone, while the whales come circling near._

Home. The concept tastes foreign on Tammy’s tongue, vaguely, _painfully_ acidic. Wherever home is, it isn’t here, his cramped crow’s nest, teetering above the world. It _can’t_ be here, because _home_ isn’t the smell of someone else’s alcohol-laden breath, bruises trailing along his stomach, bone-deep exhaustion. _Home_ shouldn’t mean feeling like an abandoned puppet, barely able to do anything without someone pulling his strings.

Then again, Sol’s arms feel like a kind of home. A tentative one, the embrace still unsure -- but he’s relaxing ever so slightly, melting into Tammy’s shoulder.  _ That’s it, sweetheart _ . He has to admit, providing comfort fills him with a lazy warmth, tempered by sharp, fierce protectiveness. Whatever Sol went through, the secrets that have yet to be spilled but lie, trembling, under his skin: Tammy’s already resolved to never let that happen to him again.

Perhaps he can make a home of this. Looking after someone. Perhaps they both can; when Tammy thinks of the house on Lanaark street, the one with flowers in the windows, he finds Sol has begun to creep into that dream. There’s room for two, a garden, only one flight of stairs -- a kitchen for making hot cocoa, a balcony for stargazing when the fog lifts enough to let pinpricks of light through.

_Oh, a man must be mad, or want money bad, to venture catching whales --_

_For he may be drowned, when the whale he comes around, or his head smashed in by the tail._

_Though the work seems grand, to the young green hand, and his heart is high as he goes,_

_In a very short burst, he’d sooner hear a curse, than a cry of there she blows._

Shifting a little, Tammy winces at a sudden burst pain. Webbing out through his back, it chases any dreams away, filling the hollow of his chest with cold, slimy _reality_ . Yes, the house on Lanaark Street has a garden, but he probably won’t be there to enjoy it. Yes, its balcony might be perfect for stargazing, but these days the cold night air weighs heavy on his lungs, a souvenir from the warped half-world between living and dying. _Revenge of the whales_ , the sailors say; if he’s in a good mood, he laughs along with them.

Tonight, though, the lyrics stab deep, salt in perpetually-weeping wounds. _He’s going to die_ , and what for? For being sixteen, drunk on praise and sweetened up with some godswater. For a night Agatha had to recount to him.

Dwelling on it won’t solve any problems, though. Tammy shoves the thoughts away, he can’t afford to be vulnerable, not when Sol’s nestled around him, breathing finally beginning to settle. For some odd reason, he reminds Tammy of Kit: a desperate need for support spoken not in words, but in fingers running through Tammy’s hair.

_All hands on deck, now, for the Lady’s sake, move quickly if you can._

_And he stumbles on deck, so dizzy and sick, for his life he don’t give a damn._

_While high overhead, the great flukes spread, and the mate gives the whale the iron,_

_And soon the blood, in a purple flood, from his spout all comes a-flying._

Sol’s breath flutters against Tammy’s neck, sending an involuntary shiver dancing over his skin. Bringing him back to reality, not the eel-slimy kind, but the warm-pile-of-blankets kind. Right now, that kind feels more real than even the ache in his back, the mind-numbing exhaustion that’s crept up on him throughout the day.

That warped, fever-wild half-world might be reality, but so are the letters under his bed, each one a harpoon in its own venomous right, ready to hunt his own whales. So are the shopkeepers, street rats, rose-sellers, his little shoal of informants, allowing him to spread a web that’s beginning to rival the jewelled spider’s. As much as Tammy knows his future is coloured by uncertainty, teetering on the edge of a whirlpool, he can taste the opportunity, tangy as sea air.

_Is this what Agatha felt, spinning her ship-dreams_ ? She must’ve felt something, _anger_ probably, married to the same desperate excitement every true sailor feels at the prospect of a voyage. Yet -- she can’t have felt as tethered as Tammy does. Sol is his anchor, the mooring rope keeping him safely in the harbour, sheltered from storm-tossed seas. Sol is a steadying weight against his back; it’s not so bad, he decides, having something to stay for.

_These trials we endure, four long years of our lives, til the flying jib points to home._

_We’re supposed for our toil, to get a bonus on the oil, and an equal share of the bone._

_But we go to the agent to settle for the trip, and find we have cause to repent,_

_For we’ve slaved away four long years of our lives, and earned about 4 cuna 10_.

The song trails off with a soft sigh; Tammy’s voice alone can’t carry it like the breakers outside can. Like Agatha used to, her voice as rich and roiling as a wave -- but perhaps he doesn’t need to. Perhaps rough-edged softness will be enough.

Glancing back at Sol, Tammy realises he’s fallen asleep, still nuzzled into Tammy’s neck. _There you go, sweetheart_ . He looks so -- _peaceful_ lying there, like the contented young man he should be. _Will be_ , Tammy thinks, a silent promise. Painfully aware that it could’ve been him in the same situation; their lives are constantly lived on the edge of it, less songbirds and more wary, damaged foxes. His younger self wasn’t as jaded as he is now, would’ve easily broken under the weight of what Sol’s been through.

Yet -- even if Sol’s soul has been keel-hauled, it’s still there. Still fluttering somewhere in his chest. At least Tammy can help nurture it, be Sol’s Agatha. Promise never to leave him, to give him the happy ending he deserves.

Those thoughts begin to unravel melting into exhaustion again. Sleep’s siren call drags him further into a warm, comforting haze, snuggling deeper into Sol’s embrace.

“Goodnight, dear,” Tammy murmurs, even though he knows Sol’s too far gone to hear him.

Sleep claims him after that, pulling him into its velvet-dark embrace.

  
 _It smells of sea salt_ , whispers the last conscious thought in his mind. _It smells of sea salt and honey_.


End file.
